


Riding the Love Train to Sanitytown

by ErinPtah



Category: Fake News FPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Spouse, American Politics, Established Relationship, Insecurity, Inspirational Speeches, Rally to Restore Sanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-02
Updated: 2010-12-02
Packaged: 2018-10-06 08:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10331060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: Jon Stewart represents us at our most aspirational. Stephen Colbert represents us as we truly are: patriotic, God-fearing, and easily confused.—Michael Brett(Rally fic. Stephen ends up metaphysically embodying America for a while.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> As bunnied by kribban, who was disappointed with the lack of rally!fic. Features one IRL kid, lots of drama (including character "death") from Stephen, some unexplained symbolism, a few sudden tense shifts, and unsubtle authorial love for Jon's speech and the Rally in general.

Most of the crew was far too exhausted to do any DC sightseeing, or even endure the grueling hike to the nearest proper restaurant, so after rehearsal they took over the hotel bar. Jon couldn't disappear too early or people would start to worry, so he huddled in a corner booth with a notebook and a well-chewed pen, turning over last-minute revisions for the next day's capstone address.

"How does this sound?" he said to the attentive audience beside him. "'We can have animus, and not be enemies.'"

From his high-chair perch, Fletcher Bee-Jones gnawed on the red crayon he was supposed to be using to help Polly Parrot find the treasure hidden in the maze.

"Oh, kiddo, don't do that. Your mother will have your head if she finds out where you picked that up." Dropping his own pen, Jon rescued the crayon and made a halfhearted attempt to wipe it off with his napkin. "What's more, she might stop letting me babysit."

Now there was a tragic thought. Jon might talk about _The Daily Show_ providing catharsis for the stress brought on by watching news all day, and he really did mean it, but he still wasn't sure how long he would have lasted without the additional safety valve of periodically sitting down with the Bee-Jones kids for a round of _Phineas and Ferb_.

"Okay, how about this." He kept his voice low but injected some zazz, plus his best off-the-cuff Dr. Heinz Doofenshmirtz. "We have a twenty-four-hour politico-pundit perpetual panic conflictinator!"

Fletcher burst into giggles, showing off flecks of red wax on his teeth, as Jon punctuated the last word with jazz hands.

"I'll take that as a yes."

He was jotting both phrases down when Stephen slid into the booth across from him, wielding a bright green drink with an apple slice on the rim and looking almost insufferably pleased with himself. It was a welcome change from the beginning of rehearsal, when he had visibly sulked through the entire (moving and flawless) rendition of "Peace Train."

"Hi, Stephen," said Jon automatically, closing the notebook before Stephen could extract anything legible from the mass of scribbles. "Can it wait? I'm kind of on a deadline, here."

"Is that your speech?" said Stephen, grinning as he tried to get a glimpse anyway. "Does it still suck? Because it sucked during rehearsal. You know that, right?"

In spite of Jon's commitment to being reasonable, it was exactly this kind of comment that had been putting a strain on his top-secret unexpectedly-mindblowing Thing With Stephen for the past month and a half. "I know. You said so earlier, when you interrupted it. Right before telling me how it was insane _not_ to be afraid of Muslim robots."

"You're going to lose," continued Stephen, plucking the apple slice from his drink and aiming it at Jon. "You're going to fall, buster, and fall hard. Come tomorrow, Fear is going to make Sanity its—" He cast a quick look at Fletcher (now attempting to fill out the maze with ketchup), and finished: "—bee-eye-tee-see-aitch."

"That's really not how this works, Stephen."

"Sure it is." Stephen wrapped his lips around the end of the apple, savoring it with almost obscene delectation. "My Old Glory is already flying at full mast just thinking about it."

Jon's eyebrows bounced in their seats. "You know you don't have to beat me in a duel of national comedy-musical crowd entertainment to get that, right?"

"You're not fooling anyone, Stewart. Like you would have any respect for me if I backed down."

There was a vicious bitterness in his tone that made Jon, who had been only half-listening while mentally reminding himself to call in that favor Artoo owed him, sit up and take notice. "Of course I'd respect...Stephen, if you're worried about what I think, the reasonable thing to do would be quit attacking me and just talk to me about it."

Stephen cut him off with a dismissive snort. "And eventually the finite powers of reason would wear down, and then where would we be? Well, I'll show you. I'll show everyone! I will _fight_ you, and I will _beat_ you, and you will crumple like a tender budding crocus under the wheel of an SUV, and then I will never have to be insecure about losing you again!"

Before Jon could recover enough to respond, Stephen chugged the last of his appletini in two swallows, slammed the glass down on the table with a nerve-shattering clang, and stalked off to lose himself in the crowd.

~*~

When Stephen was nine, he discovered the fallout shelter in the basement of his elementary school. For the next few months he skipped more than a few gym classes to hide out there, and even put together some makeshift decoration, taping red maple leaves to the wall in columns and spirals. He had almost gotten a pattern he could really be proud of, too, when one day he came down and found the place with a brand-new non-broken lock.

Ever since then, he's had a way with bunkers. Colbunkers, nuclear bunkers, Archie Bunker...he's a bunker-thusiast, is the general idea.

The cave under the National Mall is rough and dark and drippy, but Stephen doesn't care. Nor is he bothered by the fact that its existence was apparently unknown to any previous geological survey. As far as he's concerned, it's a bunker, and if other people don't have his way with bunkers, that can't be helped.

He rigs up a simple camera setup, lays out his sleeping bag, fluffs the pillow he stole from the hotel, and curls up for the night.

It's not that Stephen isn't secure in the knowledge Fear will win. He's mostly just scared that nobody will show up to witness it, and the shame will be so great that he'll never be able to face the world again. If that happens, the newly-dubbed Fear Bunker will give him a safe place to hide out, at least until he's sure that he can safely sneak back home without running into any bigger pundits who will beat him up and steal his lunch money.

His second-last thought before drifting off is that he doesn't know how long this will be, and it might have been wise to bring more food than the after-dinner mints he pilfered along with the pillow.

His last thought is that once he's back in the Colbunker he'll have to change the lock, to keep Jon from getting in.

~*~

Jon was apparently not the only one who arranged for secret last-minute guests, which was how he found himself jumping and waving his arms in the middle of the stage in a frantic attempt to stop a crazy train.

Yusuf and Ozzy finally did the reasonable thing and left together, arm-in-arm, leaving Jon's voice cracking as he yelled at Stephen, more out of anxiety about the fate of the ten million people in front of him than any real personal grudge. Stephen snapped back, illogical and petty and frustrated and clearly just as distressed—he was so used to having the world mold to his wishes, like the screen in the shadows behind them that seemed to have dug up its own flame-based graphics to match the new performance, that he seemed to have no idea what to do with a falling-apart plan except shout harder.

They were pacing and stomping, respectively, when a few notes of Philadelphia soul drifted across the air.

Whatever homing instinct it triggered in Jon must have had a companion in Stephen. Before the last echoes had faded they were face to face, hands suspended at the same level, fingertips on the verge of brushing.

"I would get on the love train!" blurted Jon, pulling away and physically stumbling back in a feeble attempt to make up for how much of himself he had just inadvertently put on the line. "I think we could compromise on the love train."

He managed to step forward, but Stephen was already skittering away, waving him back. "I don't know if I can get on the love train, Jon. That doesn't sound fearful."

"STDs?" countered Jon. "STDs..." Scrambling for a follow-up, he found himself in chorus with Stephen: "Heartbreak?"

Stephen accepted. It was cautious and stammering and he was probably thinking more about that sweet rhythm than about who he was being asked to ride the train with, but he accepted.

The screen improvised a medley of pulsing red-and-pink hearts to accompany the O'Jays, and Jon swayed with the beat until they were out of view of the crowd, at which point he tried to catch Stephen's eye in private. But there were people here too, offering them chairs and water and a power bar each to keep their blood sugar up. Probably for the best. Jon was keeping a whole speech's worth of heartfelt human connection bottled up already; left alone with Stephen right then, he wouldn't have had any space to know what to say.

~*~

Stephen is dead.

Definitely, unquestionably, tragically dead. If he weren't, why would he be letting a skinny British guy in forest-green tights drag him off the screen? See, that proves it.

And it's all Jon's fault. Which means that Jon, gentle soul that he is, will be wracked by guilt and broken up inside. Stephen can see it all now: Jon kneeling by his limp body, whispering things like "He looks so handsome, even in death" and "I never appreciated him enough when he was still with us" and "Oh, Stephen, I would gladly forget about all the arguments we have ever had, if only I could have you back."

At this point, he will shed a single, perfect tear, which will land on Stephen's cheek. And Stephen's lashes will flutter. Almost imperceptibly at first, but then the color will flow back into his cheeks, his eyes will slowly open, and he will whisper, "How long was I out?"

Jon will be so delighted that he'll probably kiss Stephen right then and there, which Stephen won't mind, because if anyone asks later on he can wave it off with the explanation that Jon was too relieved to think straight. From there it won't be long before they're back in one of their hotel rooms, enjoying the crazy rally sex that surely they deserve.

The plan is perfect, with one minor exception: it relies on Jon sobbing over Stephen, and Jon doesn't seem to be materializing.

In fact, nobody seems to be giving Stephen so much as a sniffle.

Cautiously, he cracks an eyelid and scans the area around him. The fear that this might break his cover is quickly set straight: nobody's paying enough attention to notice. All attention is turned towards the stage, where Jon has not only stayed with the audience, he's started talking to them.

For lack of anything better to do, Stephen listens.

Jon is sure, and passionate, and frank, and sincere. He's perfectly reasonable and speaking from the heart all at once, which is a feat Stephen isn't sure his own heart would be able to support. Just hearing this is making it ache.

The crowd doesn't help. The whole group of six billion people, in between outbursts of pure adoration, is so silent you could have heard a pin drop. Even the weather seems to be on Jon's side: the sun becomes his spotlight with not a cloud in its path, while the wind unfurls the flags at his back and toys with his jacket in a way that makes it seem more like a superhero's cape than the _real_ cape Stephen wore during the first act.

And because Jon does not appreciate the power of mobs—or, perhaps, because he does—he asks nothing of them. He could have started a movement, or fomented a revolution, or at least arranged to crash a few websites. Instead he takes the love and appreciation that these people are pouring out without condition, thanks them for it, and hands it gently back.

Stephen feels like crying.

Nobody is watching him anyway, but he still sneaks back into the Fear Bunker to get a quick sob in private before the big final dance number.

~*~

Jon managed to kick off his shoes before collapsing on the hotel bed. They didn't need to be at the airport for a couple of hours, and he had more than enough time to switch outfits—all the quick-changes he had done in the past forty-eight hours, he should be able to do it in his sleep by now. He just needed a few minutes of shut-eye first.

This brilliant plan was turned on its head when someone knocked at the door.

Jon hauled his aching body up from the floral-printed comforter and trudged over to answer. Eyes half-closed already, he didn't bother trying to muster the focus required to work the peephole, but pulled it promptly open. If it was Stephen, he would already be ticked off about the delay.

It's not Stephen.

"If I'm already dreaming," says Jon crossly, "why do I still feel so tired?"

The old man shrugs. He's a head taller than Jon even without the stovepipe hat, and the horizontal stripes only highlight the fact that he's skinny as a rail, making Jon feel like the short round half of an animated comedy duo. "Don't ask me. It's your subconscious, not mine. Do you have a minute?"

"I think I have all night," says Jon, following him down the hall. The transition from plush carpets and bland wallpaper to rough sidewalk and crisp October skies comes easy as breathing. "Uh, wait, that didn't come out right. Listen, about the 'I'd marry Uncle Sam if I could do it legally' line...I was kind of caught up in the spirit of the moment, I didn't mean it literally. Not that...you're very handsome for an older gentleman, it's just...."

His companion holds up a hand. "Say no more. I take the admiration in the spirit with which it was offered, and assure you that I respect you as a favorite son-in-law."

Before Jon can puzzle this out, they're picking a slow path through rocky crags. The limestone and shale hug them tightly for a few steps, then fan out into a cavern with warm lights strung along the walls.

On a flopped-open sleeping bag lies a wretched heap of Stephen, face buried in a lavender-scented pillow, shoulders heaving every few beats with a particularly wracking sob. The woman sitting on an outcrop beside him is dressed for modern hiking in a turtleneck and jeans, but even that can't help looking iconic when everything from her ringlets to her bootlaces is rusted-copper green.

"Of course it's not too late, sweetheart," she murmurs, rubbing his back through his own flag pullover. "You can't give up on the boy without even talking to him."

"It doesn't matter if I talk to him!" wails Stephen. "Did you hear what he said? Do you understand what it means?"

"What did you think it meant?"

"I _know_ what it meant! It meant sanity _won!_ "

"And did he threaten to dump you if that happened? Of course not. Think about what you're saying, America. He's committed to being reasonable. Would that be reasonable?"

"Doesn't matter!" cries Stephen, shaking his head against the pillow. "It doesn't matter how reasonable he can be, because sooner or later he'll find out that I _can't_. Fear, I can handle! I can do panic and paranoia, anxiety and anger, mood swings all over the map. Take that away, and eventually he's going to realize that I can't—do—sanity!"

 _Heartbreak,_ thinks Jon, feeling lost and fragile just getting it secondhand.

Stephen's sobs are dwindling to sniffles, if only because he's running out of steam. When he speaks again, it's bleak, drained. "Maybe it's better this way," he mumbles thickly. "He gets to go forth and do his big sanityquest. It'll make him happy. And it'll be easier without my crazy dragging him down."

Smoothing down his wildly unkempt hair all the while, the woman looks helplessly over at Jon. "Will you talk to him?"

Caught off-guard, Jon turns to his companion, who squeezes his shoulder and nudges him forward.

The woman backs away to let him pass, and Jon lowers himself to kneel on the sleeping bag, then takes a chance and lies down. "Stephen. _America._ Shhh. It's okay."

Stephen doesn't seem to notice as Jon curls against his back, lips brushing the nape of his neck. He twitches with another sob, smaller and weaker than the rest, like it's trying to take flight with its fellows but can't quite get off the ground.

"I know you're not always totally sane," admits Jon, hand cupping Stephen's shoulder on the seam where the creamy fleece meets the navy blue. "You wouldn't be half as amazing as you are if there weren't a healthy dose of crazy mixed in once in a while. Remember that time you decided to take on the whole British Empire, and then replace it with a kind of government that nobody else had even tried? What reasonable person could pull off something like that? Or that day you woke up and decided you were going to put human beings on the moon. The _moon_ , America! They don't call it 'lunacy' for nothing."

A shudder runs through Stephen, this one finally dry. He pulls his arms in close, hugging himself tightly.

"But right now you're going overboard," continues Jon, wrapping his own arm around Stephen's waist. "The crazy is getting out of control. That's what I'm trying to fight against. And you're getting hurt by it as much as anyone else—can't you see that? Like this. Right now. You can't expect me to sit back and refuse to challenge whatever anxious-depressive-paranoid switch is going off in your head telling you I can't love you."

There's still no way to tell if any of this is getting through. Stephen hasn't said a word, although his breath seems at long last to be evening out. At the edge of the cave, someone flicks out the lights before slipping out.

In the dark, Jon feels Stephen's hand slip over his and lace their fingers together.

~*~

"Stephen!" A firm grip on his elbow dragged him out of slumber. "C'mon, Stephen, wake up."

Stiff and sore as he was, five more minutes of lying on shale and limestone sounded like a better deal than trying to wake up. "Go 'way," he muttered, trying to shrug it off. "Leave me on my rocks."

"Rocks?" repeated the voice at his side. "In coach I could understand that, but we're in first class."

Stephen opened his eyes. Sure enough, he was curled up under a passably fuzzy airline blanket, with headlights swarming around the dark tarmac to his left and people in the aisles fumbling with their bags to the right. "This isn't a cave," he said, squinting.

"Uh, no," agreed Jon, waving a hand in front of his face. "You're just you, right? Not some metaphysical embodiment of the entire nation?"

Stephen frowned. "Jon, I am _always_ a metaphysical embodiment of the nation."

"Right, right." Jon stretched, covering his mouth too late to hide a yawn that seemed bigger than he was. "Sorry, tired. It's been kind of a crazy day. Come on, grab your stuff."

"You could just go," blurted Stephen with an uncomfortable stammer. "If you didn't want to wait for me, I would understand. What with the way I've been yelling at you, and trying to stop you from wearing a perfectly nice pullover, and...and being part of the conflictinator."

"Hey," interrupted Jon. "I told you before, and I'll tell you again. I'm not going anywhere. Except home, for a good night's sleep, because I have a show on Monday. And you've got one too, so you should probably do the same."

He offered his hand.

After a beat, Stephen took it, the blanket slipping from his legs as he let himself be pulled to his feet. When Jon tried to let go he only gripped harder, turning the gesture into a fervent clasp: trying to convey his thanks with a combination of skin-to-skin contact and a lingering, soulful gaze.

"Would you guys mind moving over?" cut in Wyatt, just as the gazing was really starting to get going. "You're blocking the aisle."

"Oh, give us a minute," snapped Stephen. And, since the reasonable concession would be for him to finish up as quickly as possible, he skipped straight to the part where he stuck his tongue in Jon's mouth.

A ripple of applause spread through the cabin, accompanied by some not-unkind laughter and at least one wolf-whistle.

Stephen dragged out the grateful kiss as long as he dared, then broke away and offered the audience a deep bow. "You're welcome," he pronounced, snatching up his bag from under the seat while he was down. To the understandably dazed-looking Jon he said nothing, just pulled him hopefully forward.

Framed by the last of the clapping, Jon squeezed his hand, and they made their way down the aisle together.


End file.
